


The Princess Trials

by botanyclub



Category: Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: 404: Historical Accuracy Not Found, F/M, i assure you that everything i know about the bachelor i learned against my will, is this a slow burn or do i love making gilbert Suffer, yes i wrote a bachelor au but it’s set in the middle ages
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23754166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/botanyclub/pseuds/botanyclub
Summary: Prince Gilbert of Avonlea, being of marriageable age and to celebrate his royal coronation at September’s end, pronounces the start of the auspicious 7th Princess Trials.
Relationships: Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley, Mary Lacroix/Sebastian ''Bash'' Lacroix
Comments: 13
Kudos: 68





	1. a royal decree

**A ROYAL DECREE**

_Prince Gilbert of Avonlea, being of marriageable age and to celebrate his royal coronation at September’s end, pronounces the start of the auspicious 7th Princess Trials._

_Henceforth, every family must submit the name of one eligible daughter to a royal tax collector, along with dues for the quarter._

_The daughter in question must be at least 16 years of age, unmarried, and of sound body and mind. She must also be in good standing with the Church._

_All those who fail to comply will be labeled delinquents and met with the swift hands of justice._


	2. the missing eighth girl

His coronation is a lofty affair and borders on the wrong side of dull. Dukes and duchesses and all manner of nobility flood in from the outer cities, taking up space in the pews and stand ready to pledge allegiance to their newly-crowned King. The cheers of peasantry can be heard drifting up into the Throne Room where the ceremony is taking place, somber and slow in contrast to the frenetic energy that lies beyond the castle walls. 

The procession itself is long and tedious and Gilbert’s recitation of his duties even more so. Not because Gilbert doesn’t take them seriously, but because he has already been performing them faithfully for the last several months. Since his father, the late King John’s death, Gilbert has been the de facto ruler of Avonlea without the crown to make it official. 

He almost prefers it that way. The pomp and circumstance of it all is beyond Gilbert’s capacity for caring, but he knows his people enjoy the tradition and the celebration that is to follow. 

His coronation and The Princess Trials to take place in one day.

“The streets have been buzzing for weeks,” Bash informs him over dinner. “The first of the maidens have already begun trickling in and some of them look to be real beauties, as well.” 

“Sure,” Gilbert says to mimic interest. He’s long-learned to never engage Bash if he wants the conversation to end. Or at least steer it elsewhere. “Would you say they are more beautiful than Mary?” 

Quickly, Bash replies, “no one is as beautiful as my Mary” in the most affronted manner possible. A one-track mind when it comes to defending the love of his life.

Gilbert glances around the room, but Bash is nowhere to be seen. No doubt taking a cat nap in an empty quarter or chasing after Mary’s skirt while she’s busy preparing for the feast. Outside of treason and general depravity, there’s not much else Gilbert wouldn’t put past his trusted advisor. 

At the end of the chamber hall, the Archbishop marches a steady line towards the prince. The ceremonial crown is a crushed velvet affair, sitting atop a satin cushion held by frail, shaking hands. The Archbishop, having lived through four coronations himself, is a wisp of a man swallowed entirely by his robes. He remains upright through self-importance alone.

Each step closer is measured and sure. What seems like an eternity passes sluggishly in between.

Gilbert understands the weight of the situation, but wishes the man would hurry things along. The next month will be a living nightmare and Gilbert just wants to return to some semblance of normal before long.

Of course, this normal will include a new _ wife _ by the end of the Princess Trials. 

Most days, Gilbert oscillates somewhere between scared and exasperated; he’s not ready to take a wife, but already annoyed at the circus of women that will be parading around his estate. Like his father before him, Gilbert aspires to become a just and competent ruler. So while he doesn’t necessarily want to be married, he knows it is part and parcel with his duties to cut a strong family figure and to lead by example. 

With so much going on, in between ruling a Kingdom and preparation for the ceremony, Gilbert has done his best to actively suppress thinking beyond ambiguous notions of the future. 

But now, in the midst of this procession, Gilbert has  _ nothing but time _ to think about his future. And his wife. 

Traditionally, it is the hand of the heir who is not first in line to the throne that is offered up for union. First-born marriages are reserved for more useful purposes, overtly political in nature, and entirely machinations to gain armies and land. In direct contrast, The Princess Trials are insidiously political; on its face, a public commitment to a Kingdom ruled hand in hand with its people. But in praxis, it is a tactic to keep the common folk complacent. To give them aspirations of royalty so that they pay their taxes and fall in line. 

But Gilbert is the only one of his siblings to make it out of childhood. And to uphold tradition and this promise to his people, Gilbert resolves to hold a princess trial for his own hand in marriage. During a fragile time of transition, he knows the Kingdom could use that boost in morale.

But the day to meet his brides has finally arrived and more and more, Gilbert feels that this is a giant mistake.

There’s no reason for it, really. His own father’s marriage had been matched through the trials (his uncle’s demise during a hunting accident triggering the line of succession shortly afterwards). By all accounts, John and Elizabeth’s marriage was a happy one before tragedy struck; dead heirs and daughters as quickly as they could produce them. Gilbert was a swan song and whom his mother had died giving birth to. The last heir to Avonlea, she gave up her life in exchange for Gilbert’s own. 

Young Gilbert grew up quickly and coddled, shielded from the harsher aspects of reality but made constantly aware of his precarious situation as not only a future King but the last carrier for his bloodline. Since before Gilbert could walk, he has been preparing to rule: vague recollections of a revolving door of tutors on the subjects of history, geography, languages, and math; lessons in defense, offense, weaponry, and diplomacy; constant reminders of etiquette and manners interweaved in his day to day movements; and the palpable frustration of a five year old who couldn’t remember the difference between a salad fork and a dessert one when both are three-pronged utensils made for sticking into foods.

It is strange, finally seeing something he has always known come to pass. In Gilbert’s rose-colored imagination, his father would be passing him the crown and retiring peacefully of old age. Gilbert is in his thirties at least and married to the love of his life, an auspicious match made in heaven, while their children’s laughter buoyes an otherwise boring coronation ceremony. 

Instead, Gilbert is alone in the world. The last Blythe left standing. 

Eventually, and as the somber organ music begins to grate on his patience, the Archbishop arrives to loftily bestow the crown atop Gilbert's head. The Throne Room erupts into cheers and applause, alarm bells tolling to let the outside world know as well. Chants of “long live the King!” reverberate throughout the space and out in the open air of the market square, so forceful it penetrates bone marrow and so deep Gilbert can feel it in the thrumming of his heart.

The rest of the ceremony passes without incident, and Gilbert retires to his personal chambers with orders to not be disturbed. 

He inexpertly sheds the layers of his regalia, stuffy and warm beneath the stiff, gold-threaded fabric. His clumsy fingers tug and pull to no avail, somehow entangling himself even further between drawstrings and clasps, before Gilbert eventually gives up and throws open a window. 

A southern breeze blows over the Lake of Shining Waters and drifts into the room, rustling the curtains to blast cool air against his face. Gilbert takes a deep breath, and then another, greedily gulping air faster than he can expel it from his lungs, hyperventilating. It is a full minute or two before the rational side of his brain kicks in and forces Gilbert to calm down. 

_ You are King now. This weakness is folly.  _

But he still can’t shake the vestiges of his childhood insecurities, of not being good enough or strong enough without the screen of his father’s influence. Now, Gilbert’s untethered and unsure of his foundation; he second-guesses himself constantly despite the advice of his council and a closely-guarded inner circle. The Princess Trials are the first unequivocal decision he’s made on his own since assuming power and he must be firm in it, or risk damaging his authority. 

Unsteadily, Gilbert lies down on top of his covers, trying to control the cadence of his breaths. He eventually succumbs to sleep and fitful dreams, still infinitely better than having to face his reality. 

-

It is hours later when Gilbert finally wakes up. His presence is requested in the eastern cabinet room by Lady Lynde, who heads up the private committee tasked with evaluating trial participants. Married to one of his father’s oldest advisors, Lady Lynde wields a more subtle power in court; the bat of her eyelash could cause windstorms abroad, but she hides it well behind a more ostentatious presentation. Since his father’s death, she has become a combative but trusted member of Gilbert’s secret inner-circle. 

He calls in one of his chambermaids, who finally unburdens Gilbert of his top layers but can only do so much to fix the mop of bed-mussed curls atop his head. He waves her off after she attempts to pull a wide-toothed comb through the knots in the back, nearly crying in relief when she finally releases the pressure.

“Leave it, Hazel. I don’t think you or I can make much more progress than this.” 

“For what it’s worth,” she supplies boldly, wiping cracked hands on her apron, “you have always been very handsome. Ever since you were a wee boy, I knew you’d grow up to be a looker.” A matronly woman of about 65, Hazel has spent almost her entire life in service to the Crown. She did everything but nurse him as a baby, and is the closest thing to a mother figure Gilbert has in his life. “Head and shoulders above whatever old bastard these girls would’ve been married off to, regardless.”

Gilbert scowls and continues to massage his scalp. The closer it gets to finally meeting the girls, the more agitated he becomes. It is not unlike going to meet his death because Gilbert’s marriage is just another symbolic sacrifice he has to make for the sake of his people; a large burden to bear for a 19 year old boy on the cusp of manhood, but put in charge of a Kingdom nonetheless. He has spent his entire life preparing for this moment, but it somehow still doesn’t feel like long enough.

Hazel replaces his crown with a much simpler circlet, elaborate enough for an important state function but without the weight of two dozen jewels resting heavy on his shoulders. She pats him once, on the cheek, in a show of affection before leaving to attend to her other duties for the night. 

Gilbert gives himself a final once-over in the mirror before he, too, heads off to perform his duties. 

-

Lady Lynde commands the room as if she were the highest authority in the land (which, when it comes to matters of The Princess Trials, Gilbert defers to her better judgement). 

Personally, Gilbert tries his best to blend into the background and ignore the half dozen or so pairs of eyes that stare at him with a diversity of intensities. Some are bold and hold eye contact unabashedly while others maintain none whatsoever, preferring to sneak glances when they think he doesn’t notice.

The cabinet room has been repurposed as a touchstone for the remainder of the trials. The chamber is just large enough to fit a small gathering of bodies and a long table in the center, decorated with candelabras and platters of assorted fruits, meats, and cheeses. An attendant stokes the fireplace more for show than for function, the warmth of September cloying in such a tight, enclosed space. 

There are girls of varying ages, but most of them skew on the younger side of the spectrum. This is not due to any machinations on Gilbert’s part, but because any unmarried woman past the age of 18 surely has some sort of defect (or so Lady Lynde assures him). The Princess Trials claim objectivity in selecting the final eight names, but there is a tacit understanding that some work must be done to weed out any undesirables. 

Lady Lynde, with such a large network of information at her disposal, is the most equipped to do the vetting herself. But of course, there are gaps in her intel. Gilbert spots a girl - no,  _ woman _ \- who veers closer to 20 as well as a Mi'kmaq girl who keeps entirely to herself.

Ka’kwet is reserved and attempts to fade out of view despite coming face to face with Gilbert during the one on one introductions. Her speech is almost whispered, presented in a low and quiet tone, which only serves to bring Gilbert closer in an attempt to hear the words. She is subsequently met with a certain hostility by the room, the other girls considering her wily for pulling such a tactic upon first meeting.

Gilbert, himself, holds no prejudice and resolves to get to know her without bias. But he also understands that the court may not extend that same courtesy and isn’t sure if he wants to subject Ka’kwet to that sort of treatment for the rest of her life. The Mi’kmaq are an oppressed group of citizens beneath the Kingdom’s ultimate authority, ostracized due to their divergent ways of life.

_ As King, you have the power to change that. _

But the rational side of Gilbert's brain submits,  _ not yet _ . He is still too young and inexperienced to upheave the social order like that. Displacing societal norms requires a more diplomatic hand he has not yet established. 

The rest of the participants line up and introduce themselves one right after the other. This serves in Gilbert’s best interest because he is already used to this sort of process when listening to requests brought forth by his people. He repeats their names in his head attached with one identifying feature: delicate Ruby, raven-haired Diana, Winnifred, a Rose, and so on and so forth. There are seven of them in total, puzzling Gilbert, who was prepared to meet eight. 

Lady Lynde frowns and draws herself to her full, diminutive height. This lack of oversight did not slip by her notice. “I can see that we are missing a girl. Let it be known that this sort of tardiness throughout the rest of the trials will not be tolerated. Nothing will be held up for your account and certainly not the King’s time, do I make myself clear?”

They all nod in assent, casting curious glances around the room as if they are able to identify the missing participant. 

Lady Lynde continues: “The Princess Trials are a long-held tradition, beloved in its attempt to join the hands of rulers and their subjects in holy matrimony. These trials have produced fruitful unions, both symbolic and realized, and continue to usher in eras of holistic prosperity for the Kingdom of Avonlea. You girls have the honor of participating in its 7th iteration, nearly two centuries since its conception with the marriage of Prince Edward and Mary Katherine.” 

Gilbert doesn’t bother to listen, having heard this speech before in Lady Lynde’s initial attempts to float the idea of holding the trials past him in council. Instead, Gilbert focuses on the window on the far end that looks out over the courtyard, the sounds and smells of servants preparing for the feast drifting upwards into the room. 

“The trials this year will follow a similar format: each girl will mee-”

She was just settling into a groove, winding herself up for her speech, when she is suddenly interrupted. A dark figure tumbles in from the window before Gilbert’s very eyes and crash lands on a side table stacked dangerously high with books. The tomes scatter loudly across the floor as the shape rolls and stands in one singular swoop, lifting delicate hands to the brim of their hood. 

Gilbert’s reaction is instinctual, jumping back from his chair in a defensive position. He grabs the nearest weapon, a fire poker, and grips it firmly in hand. Ruby emits a blood-curdling scream that alerts the guards standing right outside the door. They rush the room in search of Gilbert, swords and spikes drawn as they form a human barrier between the intruder and their King. 

“An assassin!” Josie yells, white-knuckling the table. Her face is ashen, but she is the one of the quicker girls to react. “Someone help!”

Ka’kwet is similarly alert, having shattered a bottle of mead against the table and wielding the broken remains as a makeshift weapon. The sound of breaking glass only adds to the chaos of the room. 

“Stop!” the shadow yells, moving quickly to reveal themselves. He is surprised by the higher pitch of the voice, and even more surprised to see it is the face of a girl beneath the hood. Female assassins are rare, but not unheard of.

As if reading his mind, the intruder says aloud, “Please, your Majesty, I’m no assassin. My name is Anne. Anne of Green Gables! I’m here for The Princess Trials.”

The missing eighth girl. 

Gilbert is suddenly fascinated by this turn of events. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no business starting a new story and yet I am also just an Author, standing in front of my Readers, asking you to leave me comments and kudos to validate my insanity. This premise is ridiculous and some world-building is required, but at the very least I hope you’re having fun :)
> 
> Despite a lack of evidence to the contrary, I promise not everything I write is in Gilbert’s POV.


End file.
